


North and South of the River

by azephirin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Comment Fic, Cuddling and Snuggling, Ficlet, Incest, Intimacy, M/M, Meme, Post-Hell, Scars, Season/Series 03-04, Season/Series 03-04 Hiatus, Trauma Recovery, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I don't have the answer / I want to meet you where you are / I don't need you to surrender...</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	North and South of the River

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://girlmostlikely.livejournal.com/profile)[**girlmostlikely**](http://girlmostlikely.livejournal.com/)'s [H/C meme](http://tvm.livejournal.com/195958.html) and originally posted [here](http://tvm.livejournal.com/195958.html?thread=5056374#t5056374). Title, cut text, and summary from "[North and South of the River](http://www.macphisto.net/u2lyrics/North_And_South_Of_The_River.html)," by U2.

Sam hates himself for thinking it would be easier if there were scars.

It's been a month, and Dean's still not talking. Oh, he _can_ talk; his vocal cords aren't scarred, mutilated, severed. Not that Sam's seen them, of course, but he imagines they're just like the rest of Dean's body, just like the rest of Sam's own: perfect and brand-new, not just resurrected but re-created. Fresh, flawless.

False.

Dean says a few words here and there: _yeah, no, thanks, okay_. He drives, but doesn't put music on, doesn't slouch back on the seat with his left arm propped up in the open window; he sits up straight, hands at ten and two like he's a kid taking his first driving test. He sleeps still and silent, goes to bed early, wakes up before Sam does. He'll get up and clean the guns, sharpen the knives, fold the laundry, but he doesn't turn the TV on with the volume all the way up so that Sam startles awake to whoever's preaching the gospel on _The 700 Club_; he doesn't wave crullers in front of Sam's face and chant, "Look into my eyes...." He waits for Sam to get up, and then they go have breakfast, and then they go on about their day.

He fights competently, has Sam's back—of course. But it's as if the hunt is habit, nothing more. They even get zombies, and Sam even finds a flamethrower (with great difficulty, expense, and extralegality), but Dean looks at it and shrugs when Sam hands it to him. Sam winds up being the one to torch the zombies. It's a lot less fun without Dean yelling, "He shoots, he scores!" and then singing, "Burn, baby, burn!"

He doesn't roll over into Sam's arms, doesn't sleep sprawled over Sam's body like he's half doing a dramatic interpretation of a blanket and half staking a claim, doesn't wake Sam up with mouth on his nipples or hand on his cock. They still sleep in the same bed, but like—the irony is bitter and sickening—brothers.

They go back to Bobby's, ostensibly for a grimoire Sam needs but in reality because he can't think of where else to go. They stay in the second bedroom, just like always, one of them in each of the twin beds.

Maybe it's the dark; maybe it's that they're safe here; maybe it's that Sam's desperate; but when he comes back into the room after his shower, he goes not to his bed but to Dean's and sits down on the edge of it. Dean's on his side, facing the door, but he rolls to his back, and Sam quashes a glimmer of hope—just habit, they usually share a bed—before he lies down, too. Their bodies are as parallel and as separate as railroad tracks.

"I wish I knew what happened, Dean," Sam says after a few minutes pass.

Dean's head doesn't turn.

"I don't know what you went through, and I don't know what you need, and I don't know whether I should ask you, but that's never worked before, and I don't want you to think that you *have* to talk about it. But I wish I knew if I'm doing the right thing, because it just feels like I'm bumbling along and trying to keep going and not fuck up too badly—"

Dean rolls back onto his side and puts his hand on Sam's cheek.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers.

Dean brushes his hand over Sam's face, through his hair, and Sam closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Dean's still looking at him. "You're doing OK," he says. His voice is rusty, like a spigot that's been shut off through a long winter. "I'll...I just can't...I'll tell you about it. Later."

"You don't have to tell me." Sam can't make his voice any stronger than the whisper. "I just— I want to be able to give you what you need."

"You're such a moron," Dean says, voice still hoarse but full of affection.

Sam rolls to his side, too, and reaches a tentative arm around Dean's middle, pulling them closer. Dean's tense at first, tight and wary, but he relaxes into Sam's touch, gradually. They shift around, relearning each other, and Sam gathers Dean against him, settles Dean's head in the crook of his arm, sifts his fingers through Dean's hair. "I think we should go to the beach," Sam says. He isn't sure where the words are coming from, but he absolutely means them. "Somewhere sunny. Lie on the sand, stay in some beach shack. That's it; nothing else."

"That what you want to do, Sammy?" Dean's thumb starts to trace light, almost diffident circles on Sam's skin. Warmth spreads from them like ripples in a still lake.

The truth is that Sam doesn't care where they are, what they're doing, as long as Dean is whole and alive and next to him. "Sure," Sam says. His voice breaks just a little.

"Maybe the Canyon after that," Dean says after a pause.

"We could head west," Sam says. "Go to the canyon first. Yell into it and see if it yells back."

"Then the beach."

"San Diego, maybe. Or Mexico. The Baja peninsula."

"You think we could get into Mexico? Or get back out?"

"We can do anything," Sam tells him. He kisses Dean's hairline, traces the shell of his ear.

"Yeah," Dean says on a sigh. "Damn right," he adds, and it's stronger. "Damn right we can."

They fall asleep curled together and wake up the same way. Dean doesn't say anything at breakfast—it's like he used up the day's quota of words last night—but he wrestles the comics away from Sam, and then goes and works on an old Ford that Bobby brought in.

They leave a few days later. Dean drives with Zeppelin in the tape deck and his arm resting along the open window.

Some scars you can't see. But they still heal.


End file.
